


Peak Performance

by inbox



Series: Church and State [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Body Image, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Muscles, Oral Sex, Physical Fitness, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Situational Humiliation, Smoking, mild allusions to pet play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are complicated, Danse realises. Church is complicated. Their relationship, professionally speaking, is complicated. What's a little fraternisation on top of that?</p><p>M!Survivor/Paladin Danse</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peak Performance

“May I?”

Church shrugs.

Danse holds the photograph like it might crumble in his hands. It's old and fragile, but all those decades spent in a lockbox under the safety of Church’s kitchen floor has kept it safe. 

The colours have faded and the contrast has softened, but it’s still recognisably a picture of Church unsmiling and serious with a solid cyberdog at his feet. There’s something industrial in the background, heavy piping softened with heavy snow, built up in flurries taller than a man. Church has his thick winter uniform high around his ears and a knit cap pulled low, his brows beetled in a frown more severe than usual.

The dog comes to Church’s knee, heavily muscled and solid. Danse looks at the chain collar around his neck, traces it back to the leash wrapped around Church's fist.

He gently thumbs the dust away from the curled edges of the photo and turns it over. Someone wrote ‘1SGT C and Clyde, Bitumount 08/05/2274’ along the bottom of the picture. He has no idea where that is. He has no idea whose handwriting that is, too neat to be Church's unreadable scrawl. 

Church, the real one, the _now_ Church, leans against the kitchen with his arms folded across his chest. Objectively Danse knows it’s foolish to expect there to be that much of a difference - he’s only a few years younger in the picture, he’s been stowed away from the centuries without aging a day - but the contrast between evidence of Church being noticeably old and the unchanged reality in front of him makes his head hurt if he thinks about it too hard.

“Impressive dog.”

Church shrugs. “They issued good hounds on that deployment. We needed them. It was…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Difficult. You know how it gets.”

They've discussed this once or twice, but it's hard to pull words out of Church when he doesn't feel like talking. The past is a closed book, but sometimes a page or two comes loose.

Sometimes Danse pulls out a page himself, grabs it and tears it clean away for his own perusal. He abused his rank and had files copied from the Brotherhood's enormous collection of pre-war military records. It was justified to the scribes as personnel research, an excuse that probably sounded as flimsy to them as it did his own ears. 

Danse knows Church’s jacket by heart now: career track SNCO, 1SG 12Z, commendations for leadership in a combat zone, medals awarded for successful back to back tours in the Canadian annexation. Numerous warnings given for discipline exceeding regulations in his company. Honourable discharge. Eligible for service recall (disputed). Lots to read between the lines. Things that were of immense value to the Brotherhood. Things that made him a valuable recruit, things that reflected well on Danse.

“Good to know you're capable of handling a dog,” says Danse, more for the sake of saying something to fill the silence. “It's a fine practical skill.”

“Add it to the list,” says Church. It sounds like a joke but he's not smiling. “Qualified to handle animals large and small.”

* * *

Danse isn’t particularly au fait with the social niceties of being invited in for a drink. He’s _familiar_ with the concept, of course, with a pleasantly active history of people being delighted to invite him to their quarters for the pretense of a drink before getting to the business of fucking, but it’s rarely been… well, a drink.

But here he is, feeling clumsy and oversized in Church’s Sanctuary yard, holding a beer in his hands like it’s a bomb ready to go off. He’s not sure why Church absentmindedly asked him in after chow, but presumably it wasn’t for contemplative silence. 

He tongues at a string of salt beef stuck behind his tooth, looks at his feet, looks at the fence at the end of the yard. It looks freshly repaired and newly whitewashed.

“I see you’ve fixed your windows,” he says, finally, just to break the dead air. “Good choice.” 

“Yeah,” says Church. “Winter here used to be hard. Haven’t had a _new_ winter yet, but I don’t imagine that it’s much different.”

“I can get you a long range forecast,” says Danse earnestly. This is vaguely in the ballpark of strategy and planning, this is something he understands. Making small talk by the light of a hurricane lamp, not so much.

Church makes a _heh_ noise, a sound both rare and easy to miss. “Weather reports. That’s one way to a man’s heart.”

“I would’ve offered sooner if I’d known it would be that easy,” he says, before he can stop himself.

“Hmm,” says Church. “Is that so.”

“I, uh.” Danse rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Depends,” he says easily. “What do you think makes me uncomfortable?”

 _Being honest_ , thinks Danse, and chastises himself immediately for being so harsh. “Personal relations,” he says, hesitantly.

He says _hmmm_ again. If his goal was to make Danse dance on tenterhooks tonight, then he’s succeeded already. “Personal relations,” he says eventually, as if tasting how the words sound in his mouth. “Are you implying I don’t fuck?”

Danse chokes on his mouthful of beer, wipes it from his lips. He can smell it in his sinuses, yeasty and over-hopped.

Church almost grins at that, settling on the old wooden seat and leaning back until his head touches the fraying metal siding of his house. It’s at just the right angle to muss the pomade in his hair, leaving a parrot’s crest right at the back of his skull. “That’s what that used to mean. ‘Personal relations.’ Sure heard it a lot with ‘confirmed bachelor.’” He makes the appropriate finger quotes in the air, still holding his beer. “That’s preferring the company of men.”

“Well,” says Danse, both stalling for time and making a running leap on the thinnest ice he can find. “Do you?”

“Which one?”

“Depends on if you’re asking as my squad leader or as--”

“As a personal interest,” he says. “As your friend.”

Church doesn't answer. He busies himself with a cigarette, holding it between pursed lips and fussing with the flint of his lighter until it finally sparks. The first draw makes the old tobacco dust crackle, and he exhales a hazy breath that wreaths his face with smoke. “One you know, and one you want to find out.”

“It's crossed my mind,” Danse admits. “It would be inappropriate though. To act on it. I know you understand.”

Church sits back, clearly for him to keep thinking through the unvoiced pieces of his justification and reach his own decision. The man is unreadable, Danse thinks, and not for the first time. Terse to the point of rudeness, impatient to a fault, but he turns on a cap and turns as patient and placid as a lake right when Danse is relying on him to make things a little easier and make a choice for him.

Things are complicated, he realises. Church is complicated. Their relationship, professionally speaking, is complicated. What's a little more confusion to add to the collection?

“Fraternisation is against the rules,” he says hesitantly.

Church blows a thin spear of smoke into the darkness. “Right.”

“And I'm still your superior officer,” he adds. “So the responsibility would be on me if we, uh, were to--”

“Fuck,” says Church, as mild as if they were discussing the weather.

“--fraternise,” finishes Danse. He runs his hands down his thighs, smoothing down the stiff cotton and blotting the unaccustomed nervous sweat from his palms.

“Right,” says Church. “Noted.”

“This means something,” snaps Danse before he can help himself. “There are… there are rules. I believe in order. You should appreciate that.”

And he knows that he does. He has to because Church is Church and he demands a certain kind of order and organisation in his day to day life. He's not unfamiliar with the law of hierarchy and their respective places within it, no matter how much he enjoys stonewalling Danse.

“My appreciation isn't the issue here.” He drains his beer and rolls the empty bottle across the yard, out of sight and out of mind. He'll collect it tomorrow.

Danse finishes his own beer and sets it down behind the park bench they're sitting on, close enough together on the old wood that their knees touch. “It's a matter of decorum,” he says stiffly. This had been so much easier when it was just a vague late night thought in his head. Point A to point B and then proceed directly to point C, all proceeding as planned without the problem of rules and guidelines and interpersonal relationships and Church being Church. “There are regulations.”

Beside him Church sighs, clearly irritated. This, perversely, is more comforting to Danse than anything else. Him getting testy is a sign that he's had just about enough beating around the bush and wants to get to the point, and quickly.

“It's not marriage, Danse,” he says. “Don't overthink it.”

Danse closes his mouth with a click of his teeth, biting back the automatic retort that's in the back of his throat.

Church slouches a little, lays an arm along the back of the seat. He makes no move to touch him. If Danse wants to bridge that gap, then the onus is on him. Damn Church. Danse glances at his mouth and the sharp line of his jaw and feels his ears begin to flush a traitorous pink. Maybe the rules and regulations against fraternisation existed solely to prevent awkward conversations like this.

“You want to kiss real sweet, fine. You want to fuck, fine. I'll even get a leash and heel you like a dog if that's what you're into.”

His blush deepens at the last offer, thinking all too clearly about that faded picture of Church, stern and unsmiling in the snow, the heavy links of a choke-chain wrapped around his wrist and a solid cyberdog obedient at his feet.

Not for the first time tonight he's glad that there's no light out here beyond an old hurricane lamp and the waning moon. Some half-formed vague ideas are not worth attempting to explain, no matter how much it makes his face flush.

“But that's here,” he continues, oblivious to Danse's line of thought. “Nowhere else. If the offer is on the table then I'm interested.”

“I'm interested,” says Danse hurriedly. “I'm... yes. I would like that.”

“Which one?” Church's thumb gently brushes the thick padded shoulder of Danse's suit, barely firm enough to be felt.

“I don't know,” he says before he can stop himself. “I hadn't--”

“Planned ahead,” Church finishes. “Right.” He pauses for a beat, as if anticipating Danse's immediate logical leap. A dismissal. Go sleep on it. Get back to me. He pats his breast pocket for his cigarettes, his lighter, making sure everything is where it should be, and lifts his brow in askance at Danse's hesitation. “I'm gonna get a beer,” he says, finally.

Church pats him on the shoulder, and unfolds himself off the bench with a grunt. It's been a long few days on the road, and the man freely admits that he doesn't care much for the long walk between the comfort of Diamond City and Sanctuary.

If he was more sure of his place with Church he'd offer to perform a restorative massage, the one every Brotherhood member got drilled into their head before their first deployment. Bad muscles made for bad ops. Poor management made for poor performance.

Somehow he doesn't think Church would buy it.

Funny, he thinks, how blustering through a discussion of the merits of a clandestine SOPs-breaking fuck didn't feel as personal as the thought of laying his hands on Church and performing the same basic physiotherapy he'd chastely performed on dozens of his brothers and sisters over the years.

Church lets the screen door bang closed when he steps in through the old garage door, and Danse can hear him whistling tunelessly through his teeth as he lights a candle and moves around the kitchen. The fridge door squeaks when he opens it, and keeps squeaking as he stands there in the near dark, idly pushing it back and forth as he decides what to drink. If he can have another drink, if one more is one too many tonight.

That at least he understands. Self discipline as a way of keeping himself together, a rigid rule of orderliness in the face of confusion.

Some sense of obligation keeps him coming back to this little settlement in the middle of nowhere. A duty of care to fix up his old house, dig faded photos up from under the floorboards and deflect any questions about the sunny smiling man in the pictures besides Church, himself unchanged and out of time.

It must hurt, Danse thinks, to feel obligated to keep old memories alive.

Eventually he returns, two relatively cool beers in hand, and for a fleeting split second almost looks surprised that Danse is still outside, inspecting his cuticles by the light of the lantern.

They drink in silence, listening to the neighbourhood settle in for the evening. It’s quiet enough that Danse can hear the windmill on the roof creaking in the slight breeze, can hear his beer drip onto the grass after he sets it down too quickly and makes it foam over his fingers.

“I'm out of practice,” he says eventually. “In matters of… personal relations.”

“In what regard specifically,” says Church. He’s looking up at the sky, studiously ignoring Danse next to him, not giving him an excuse to try and say what he means through any other means except one tortuous word after another.

If it was anyone else Danse would know that they were baiting him, flirting maybe, but Church has a habit of keeping quiet when it suits him. Somehow it’s even more frustrating than his habit of talking about near everything in the most detached, note taking tone possible, practically forcing people into spilling more than they wanted in an effort to fill the gaps in the conversation.

It's a skill that Danse wants to take back to his own command because it works so damn well, but here and now, sitting in a dimly lit yard with Church's thigh against his own, it's just making him irritable.

“I haven't had the opportunity to have personal relations in some time,” he says bluntly.

Church surprises him by letting out a loud bark of laughter. Maybe the first time he’s ever really heard him laugh. Of course it’s at his expense. “Christ,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn't expecting that.”

“It's true,” says Danse, his tone a little more petulant than he was strictly comfortable with. “I want to be honest.”

“Well,” he says, taking a long swallow of his beer. “Good to know. Neither have I, but I wasn't going to announce it to the world.”

“Enjoy it,” says Danse.”I don’t make a habit of sharing personal information.”

“No wonder,” says Church. “Can’t blame you when that’s the material you’ve got.”

Danse puts his beer down and clears his throat, ready to make a fool of himself if it means a satisfactory result for all involved.

"Spread your legs, Knight Church," he says, clear and authoritatively. An order, made with confidence. If he’s trying to convince himself or Church, well, he’s not quite sure.

He drops to his knees and pushes Church's thighs apart, settling between his legs. Danse runs his hands up the inseam of his trousers, feeling the tense and flex of muscle under his palms. He brushes the worst of the garden mud from Church’s boot and rests it against his thigh, digging his thumbs into the meat of his calf.

“Oh,” says Church. “Right.” He passes his bottle from hand to hand then sets it on the bench, a fingertip on the lip holding it steady. “Ok. That’s... not what I was expecting you to do.”

“Good muscle maintenance is important,” Danse says primly. He works a tense knot loose with more effort than is really needed, kneading it until Church sucks in a sharp hiss of air between clenched teeth. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Church doesn't dignify him with an answer. He arches the ball of his foot backwards, making the leather of his boot creak as the laces strained, digging his heel into the solid expanse of Danse’s thigh.

It’s his turn to draw back a breath, eyes wide and stilling for a heartbeat. The moment passes and he bows his head, intently working his thumbs behind Church’s knee, slipping along the back of his thigh.

“It's my responsibility to observe and correct your physical form,” he says after a long pause. “I have a duty to my brothers and sisters and those under my command. I would expect you to extend me the same courtesy.”

Church makes a noncommittal noise that might've been _go on_ or _horseshit_ or any number of things Danse was still unable to translate. He still didn't know Church all that well, no doubt because the man did everything possible to keep himself as impenetrable as possible.

“Just say the word,” says Church lightly. His boot presses into Danse’s thigh again, harder this time. “Might require some training though.”

“That can be arranged,” he says. He works his hands as far under Church’s leg as he can, curling his fingers along his inseam, following the lean muscle as high as propriety allowed.

Church’s face gives nothing away, his expression carefully schooled into complete neutrality. Flying blind, operating without a map. He’s wanted to blow him for weeks, and this might be as close as he ever gets.

The muscles on the inside of his knee are wound tight, resistant to all but the most intense touch, and Church grunts when the knot of tissue finally releases and lets go.

He switches to the other leg, works him over quickly and efficiently until the worst of the knots are loose and any potential leg cramps are held off for another day. The grass from Church's soles leave a smudge of green against the orange cotton of his uniform, a deeper stain marking out the lopsided arch of his heel, worn uneven by the passing of many miles underfoot.

Church rolls his beer bottle between two fingers back and forth across the bench, the grooved glass base clicking against the wood. When Danse finally lifts his hands he carefully, deliberately, crosses his legs at the ankles, down in the dirt between Danse’s parted thighs. He tilts his chin just a little and says nothing, waiting with uncharacteristic patience.  

The hobnails on his boots almost touch the fabric stretched taut at the junction of Danse's legs, close enough that he’d only have to shift a little to be scraped by them, push against Church’s mud-stained boots, sit up on his haunches and grind against the long boney line of his shin like an untrained hound.

 _Qualified to handle animals large and small_ , Danse thinks, and swallows thickly.

He wonders if he's telegraphing his thoughts anywhere near as loudly as he suspects he is. Subtlety has never been his strongest skill.

"I want to suck you," he says in a rush, before he loses his nerve. "I want you to enjoy it."

"Right," says Church. “That’s what I thought you were going to say.” If it was anyone else he'd say that he was trying not to laugh, but this is Church and – occasional outburst aside – he's as placid as a lake, still and smooth on top with god knows what lurking underneath.

One day he’ll be able to crack Church open like a book and rifle through the pages and know what he's reading. Maybe. That it’ll make them work better together as a ground team is the justification he's going to keep using.

He obliges Danse enough to thumb open the button on his trousers, and watches through half closed eyes as Danse tugs down his zip and pulls his dick free from his shorts. He's half hard in his hand, dark and thick with a curve, and Danse spits on the head of his cock with precision and wets his shaft with his palm before taking him in his mouth.

Church exhales long and measured, says _yeah_ under his breath when Danse rolls his tongue against his frenulum, traces the delineation between his shaft and the head of his dick. Church is cut, a relative rarity these days. He mouths the soft skin of his shaft and kisses the thick vein that stands out along the underside, and breathes deeply when he presses his nose against the crisp sparse hair on his balls.

“Up to regs,” says Church, and almost cracks a smile when Danse rolls his eyes and sucks him until his cheeks hollow. 

"You mind if I smoke?" He lights up without waiting for an answer, patting his shirt pocket and and pulling a cigarette from the beat up packet that seemingly lives against his heart, day in and day out. The spark of his lighter shines in his glasses when Danse glances up, dark brows drawn down into a frown.

"Those reduce your fitness and peak performance," he says primly, wiping spit from the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe." Church draws back hard, enough to make the cherry gleam bright in the evening light, and exhales a plump smoke ring into the air. It catches in the soft light of the hurricane lamp, turning golden for a moment before fading into the dark. "But keep going anyway."

His hand rests on the back of Danse's head, fingers threading into the coarse waves of hair that are growing long in between trims. He doesn't press down, doesn't guide him. Danse knows that its unsatisfactory.  
  
For him, at least.  
  
He suspects that Church is holding himself in check, an artificial display of relaxation with the cigarette and the beer, one arm spread along the back of the park bench like he was doing nothing more than admiring the weather.  
  
The man might not say much, but being passive has never been his style. Danse reaches blindly behind him, twisting his shoulder to grasp at Church's hand, pushing it down on his neck, his head.  
  
It works. God, it works. Night and day, from a gentle touch to firm pressure, with the potential for more.  
  
"Aren't you good," says Church, low and quiet. He holds Danse still, wraps his hand around the hard jut of his spine above his collar, his thumb pressing into the joint of his jaw. It pains until he has no choice but to open even wider, but eases up the moment he relaxes and goes still and acquiesces to Church's control.

The blunt head of Church's dick presses against the soft tender skin in the back of his mouth and he chokes, swallows. He relents a little, enough to get his breath back, and does it again, until thick spit is pooling in Danse's mouth and running down his chin, staining the bunched fabric of Church's trousers with dampness. 

He snakes one arm between his legs to palm himself, adjusting his erection where it presses against the seam of his uniform.

“Hands up,” says Church, clearly quicker on the uptake than most fellas Danse has blown. “On my knees, both of them.”

He exhales another hazy cloud of cigarette smoke and ashes away from Danse, tapping into the potted spindly aloe that's already full of cigarette butts. Danse digs his fingertips into Church’s knees, pulling at the old khaki until it squeaks under his nails.

"So good," he says again, and something about his offhand compliments makes Danse's belly clench in anticipation. “Lean forward for me. Breathe in through your nose.”

Church pushes him onto his dick, a little at a time, slow enough that Danse can tongue him and adjust to the weight of him in his mouth without the freedom to guide him with his hands. He chokes a little, drools and gags, looks up at Church through his lashes and watches him being watched in return.

“Look at you,” says Church softly. He finishes his cigarette and grinds it out on the seat, tossing the butt into the darkness with a flick of his nail. He rubs cigarette-scented fingers down the line of Danse's jaw, smooths over his cheekbones, his brow, scratches through his hair. “Taking care of your command like this, Paladin. Never would've known you were out of practice at sucking dick.”

Danse blushes hotly at that, half from embarrassment at Church's far too accurate assessment of his flimsy excuse for maneuvering himself into blowing him in the first place, half from the giddy thrill of being sized up and found acceptable. He hums around him and attempts to swallow him completely, suck him down until his nose is buried in in the trimmed smattering of hair that surrounds his cock and creeps up Church’s belly.

Church holds him back by the hair. His scalp prickles with pain and his eyes water, but it's a good hurt. A satisfying hurt. He’s always liked having his hair pulled.

“Not today,” he says thickly. “Next time.”

Danse hums at that, _next time_ , mumbled around the dick heavy on his tongue. His breath hitches with every tug at his scalp, and he can feel his eyes welling up until salt water threatens to drip down his cheek.

Church pulls his hair again, watches his response with calculating interest. Hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to set a tension headache roiling up his spine. He’s sure Church has read his medical history, knows about the headaches he tries to keep hidden. He likes to know everything about everyone, a constant study in noting every little detail that might pan out useful in the future.

He wonders, not for the first time, if Church has been filing away information just for an eventuality such as this. The thought makes his core clench in raw excitement.

“You say stop and I’ll stop,” says Church. He catches Danse’s eye and says it again.

He sits back a little, blots his eyes with his sleeve, offers up a shaky grin before settling back with his hands on Church’s knees, just like he asked. “I will,” he says. His voice is scratchy. “Don’t worry about that. I’m good. Better than good.”

There's a noise nearby, the slam of a screen door and Casey next door hollering for her wife to come in for dinner. Danse starts backwards, worried about proprietary and decorum. He can move. He can leave, but Church's fingers are still loosely woven through his hair, an anchor to the ground.

“Stay,” says Church, unruffled by the noise and prospect of discovery.

It's unlikely, Danse knows. Their indiscretion is well hidden behind high hedges and overgrown trees, and the well known fact that Church tears strips off anyone who steps a foot into the last remaining place on earth that's _his_ , but still. He worries.

“I would like it if you stayed still for me.” He lets go of his hair anyway, rests his hands over Danse’s own, still holding onto his legs with a grip that must be bordering on painful.

“Church,” he says urgently. When he shifts his weight from thigh to thigh he can feel the cool dirt seeping into the fabric over his knees, the uncomfortable dampness of his own cock thick in his shorts.

“Paladin,” he says evenly, and kisses him. It's a bad angle, his neck craned backwards and Church hunched over with his dick pressed against his shirt, but he takes Danse's mouth and swallows his protests about appropriate behaviour. He licks into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself on Danse's tongue, and Danse can't help but moan and lean into him.

They break apart, close enough that their lips brush. Danse closes his eyes when he hears that he's _so good, such a good cocksucker, the very best_ , trying his best to hold back and not show his hand, turning towards every compliment like a flower to the sun. They kiss chastely, a press of lips, the scent of stale tobacco strong in his nose.

Church presses his thumb to the swell of Danse's lower lip and makes a low noise in the back of his throat when he tastes him, licks up the salt and cigarettes and pulls a face at the sour taste of old carbon grease forever embedded under his nails.

They stay like that for a long moment, until the screen door knocks against its frame and Casey cusses up a storm about mud being tracked onto the new rag rug and then, again, quiet. He relaxes by degrees, chin tipped upwards and searching Church’s face for any signs of irritation or annoyance with him being so skittish and wary. There’s nothing there but the corners of his eyes crinkling into a hint of approval.

Church cups his face in his hands and says _good boy_ , and Danse feels the heat prickling up his cheeks, mortified and turned on.

Perhaps he should be embarrassed, acting like this. Going against the regulations, behaviour unbecoming of a man with his own command, down in the dirt with his subordinate's dick in his mouth. But fuck, he can't think about that right now, not when he's finally got Church's thighs spread and his fingers back in his hair, guiding him and using him as he gets off with Danse's mouth.

Church is quiet when he comes, spilling into Danse's mouth in thick bursts. He holds it in his mouth, unwilling to swallow but unwilling to spit it out in case that's… rude? Ungrateful? He's not entirely sure why gratitude would even factor in when he's the one getting grass on his knees in the first place, but the thought wedges itself into his mind regardless.

“Spit it,” Church says tiredly, and the corner of his mouth crooks up the slightest bit when Danse obligingly spits out his mouthful of cum into the poor beleaguered aloe pot. He bows his head a little to get his breath back, and doesn't protest when Church pets the nape of his neck, rubs his thumb under the curve of his ear.

“I hope that was sufficient,” says Danse eventually, for the want of anything better to say. He'd never been good at this part – or any of it, really, the give and take of smart lines and smooth segues – and not when he's got a hard-on in his shorts and a kind of quiet desperation that Church will find his performance adequate enough to make him come in turn. He sits back on his heels and wipes the corner of his mouth, and gratefully rinses his mouth with the last gulp of tepid beer when Church hands the bottle to him.

“More than acceptable,” says Church. He tucks his dick back into his shorts and zips himself up. The front of his trousers is still stained dark with spit. He pats at his thigh, the same way Danse used to pat at his leg to encourage the Citadel dogs to come sit by him. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Negative,” says Danse. He gets to his feet anyway, knees tight and locked and taut with pain after so long in the cool dirt. “My weight would crush you.”

“I didn't ask your opinion,” says Church. It's almost comforting to see him revert back to his usual testiness so quickly. Reliable. A universal constant. “My load bearing capabilities aren't yours to judge, Paladin.”

It takes Danse a moment to realise that he's made a joke, albeit a bad one. Ah. He doesn't know if he should laugh politely or not. Best to let it hang dead in the air than draw attention to the fact that neither of them are made for comedy, he figures.

“If you feel uncomfortable...,” he says.

“I'll let you know,” says Church. “Knee on either side, facing me.”

He’s expecting a perfunctory tug, a quick jerk as a reward for services rendered, but Church makes no move to touch his dick. He runs his palms along the solid muscle of Danse’s thighs, strokes his flanks and smooths down his arms. “Look at you,” he says again, softly. “A marvel of construction.”

“I work hard to achieve...” says Danse immediately. He trails off when Church’s hands settle on his hips, encouraging him to rock forward and grind against him. It pulls the crotch of his uniform tight against his hips and thighs, just enough pressure to keep him off-kilter and eager. “...to achieve this level of fitness,” he says again, somewhat lamely.

“I’m aware,” says Church. His hands are on Danse’s ass, fingertips digging into the thick fabric, digging into to the meat of his glutes. “You’re a perfect specimen.”

That phrasing shouldn’t set off a hot twist in his gut, Danse thinks. It’s too… scribe-like. Like he’s an object, but then again, he's not above a little objectification. Some of his best fucks have come from people keen to explore every inch of his personal topography, every well honed muscle shaped by a regime of workouts designed to keep him heavy cavalry ready. His level of maintenance is a point of personal pride, near perfection achieved and kept in a state of unchanging readiness.

He hopes, and not for the first time, that Church is going to be one of those great fucks, and sooner rather than later.

“It's criminal to keep you suited up all day,” says Church, leaving his ass alone enough to tug at the harness hook at the collar of his uniform. He pulls it a little, testing its give, how the stiff waxed fabric pulls against Danse's neck.

“I'll take the protection of a full suit any day,” says Danse, but there's no real heart in his defence of the merits of heavy armour. “Even if it hides my--”

“Fuckable assets,” says Church, and almost grins when Danse’s eyes widen. He tugs him off balance and down, until Danse has no choice but to blindly brace himself against the house wall or fall over. The metal panels creak warningly, but being close enough to smell the warm cotton of Church’s shirt, the pomade in his hair, the faint scent of chlorinated water and cheap brahmin fat soap… fuck, _fuck_ , thinks Danse, it's worth it, even if the neighbours might hear.

He rolls his hips and grinds against his thigh. There's nowhere near enough friction and pressure for him to get off, but Church's hands on his hips and his warm breath against his cheek is just enough to keep him hot and hazy until he unbuttons his suit and pulls his dick free. He's achingly hard already, full and heavy and ready to come. Church works his foreskin back and forth, catching over the head of his cock and smearing precum with the pad of his thumb. He combs his fingers through the cropped mat of Danse's public hair, trimmed regulation short.

“Sit up,” he says, one hand cupping his ass and encouraging him to raise him a little. “Put that fitness into practice right now.”

He raises himself on his knees, upright enough that his cock comes dangerously close to bouncing on Church's collar. Big square hands settle on his hips and push him down a little until his thighs are on a precise 45 degree angle, his own weight straining at the thick muscles of his quads.

Church's thick thumb presses to the tender skin behind Danse's balls, rubbing him slow and firm until he grabs onto his shoulder, bowing his head with a noisy exhale of beer breath.

He spits on his palm and jerks him off with a light touch, not firm enough to give any real pressure and pleasure. Danse rolls his hips and rides his hand, says _yeah… yeah…_ , keeps Church’s thumb square on the spot that builds a gentle heat in his gut.

He’s finally got a good peak rising when the strain on his thighs gets to be too much, too severe, and he sits back on Church's knees to get comfortable and ride the peak to a satisfying orgasm all over Church’s hands and anywhere else he might allow it.

Instead he stops. Church sits back, arms akimbo along the back of the seat, and looks at Danse expectantly.

“I--,” says Danse, puzzled at the sudden lack of contact. His dick jerks against the thick cotton covering his belly, glossy with precum and spit.

“I asked you to sit up,” says Church, as mild as if he'd asked him about the weather.

Danse blinks. “It puts an unreasonable strain on my legs. I don't see--”

“Paladin. Take it as a...” He trails off, clearly searching for the right phrase. “A measure of your fitness and peak performance.”

He flushes at that, hearing his own words tossed back at him. Barely three months in the Brotherhood and Church already just about the best at needling Danse without him even realising, constantly setting him up to test his limits _and_ his patience.

Danse thinks back to Church's files, the warnings for over-zealous discipline, the commendations for leadership. Always pushing for optimum performance under onerous situations, now and then. Expecting and demanding that things are kept to his rigorous specifications.

Church is not a likeable man, or a personable one. He's a demanding asshole who is a stickler for the rules, achieving the objective, demanding the best. Danse supposes that he’s the same. Maybe they match, a paired set, right down to making a rash decision to throw ideology out the door because he sure as shit can't stop thinking about Church with a heavy choke chain wrapped around his wrist and snow dusting his shoulders.

The bait works regardless, and he grits his teeth and raises himself on his knees, back straight and the rough wooden bench cutting into his shins. After a moment he laces his fingers behind his head, elbows out. It keeps his spine straight, core muscles tight, shows off the squared taper of his lats and the way his uniform pulls tight across his chest while he holds himself taut at Church’s request.

Danse wants - desperately wants - to show off and display himself. _A perfect specimen._ It's inappropriate for their respective positions, his conduct unbecoming for a superior rank, but the flash of unguarded naked _want_ on Church's face when Danse arranges himself unbidden overrides those concerns.

It all flows together, the hot coil of pleasure building up in his belly, the acid burn of pain in his thighs, the slick pull of Church's hand on his dick. When it gets too much he gingerly sits back on Church's thighs, rubs out the lactic acid burn from his quads, ignoring the tension curling tighter in his gut every time his orgasm is delayed again and again by his own physical limits. Church waits, fingers drumming on the old wooden seat, and gifts him a small nod of approval each time Danse digs in deep for a fresh reserve of energy and raises himself again.

He's not entirely sure if he's putting himself through this for the fact that Church is so good at jerking him off – just the way he likes it, a little rough and not too wet, as if he's rolled over late at night and studied him palming himself off while on firewatch – or, worse, for each little sample of Church's approval, each murmured _aren't you good_ and _aren't you a sight_ embarrassing and fantastic in equal measure.

Maybe it's both.

It builds into a feedback loop of heat folding back on itself again and again until he comes with his hand over his mouth, muffling a moan into his palm. Church slowly coaxes out the aftershocks of his orgasm with featherlight touches at the base of his dick, making him snap his hips with each pass of his thumb against the smooth skin behind his balls.

Finally, eventually, when he’s got nothing left, Church helps him to ease back down, his thighs too strained to be mindful of how hard he drops his weight onto the meat of Church's legs. He sits there, out of breath, uncaring about how he must look, red faced and sweating, unable to tear his eyes away as Church licks the cum from his fingers.

“Excellent work,” says Church, pushing his palms against Danse's thighs, firm and steady strokes towards his hips, working out the worst of the acidic burn from his muscles. He leaves a dark smear of spit and semen down his left inseam of his thigh, wetness catching on the stitching. “You performed above and beyond my expectations, Paladin.”

“Thank you,” he says, for the sake of something to say. This is a far sight from negotiating a solid toe-curling suck in the shadowy corners of Rivet City or being enthusiastically getting fucked boneless in his Citadel quarters. This level of… restraint is unknown. “Your performance was outstanding as well.”

Church rolls his eyes and helps him to stand. He takes Danse’s wrists and keeps him steady as he slides backwards, one foot at a time, his shins singing in pain where the wooden bench has cut unforgivingly into his skin. His legs that feel like they can't possibly support his weight, threatening to give out from underneath him, and Church doesn't let him go until he shakes himself free, more concerned about the preserving the dignity his uniform, unbuttoned and rumpled with his soft cock hanging free on display.

Church busies himself with his cigarettes while Danse sets his clothing to rights, more interested in the routine of coaxing his troublesome lighter to spark than watching Danse button himself tight.

“I can get us another drink,” says Danse uncertainly, once he’s squared away and feeling presentable and whole again. He realizes he's standing at parade rest, drawn up and straight with his hands clasped behind his back, and makes himself relax. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. “It's good to rehydrate after physical exert--”

Church stops him before he can finish that disaster of a sentence, holding up his hand to cut him off.  “I've had my ration for the night. Three is enough. Feel free to take one with you as you go.”

Church’s couched dismissal is, inexplicably, the most normal moment of the past forty minutes. He lingers for a moment, unsure of what to say - if there was even a right thing to say, if _your idea of testing physical fitness is worthy of a commendation_ is tactful and appropriate - but settles for pressing his fist to his chest in a respectful salute to his brother in arms.

Church blows a smoke ring in the air, fat and lopsided, and returns the salute. “Sleep well, Paladin.”

“I'll endeavor to do so,” he says, a little too earnestly. “And I hope you give some thought to our… discussion prior.”

Church gives him a look that stretches on just a hair too long. “Already done my reasoned consideration. It's your call, Danse.”

“I don't follow?”

“The nature of our, fuck, how you put it. Our discussion. You want me to hold your hand or put your knees to your ears or--”

“Leash. Like a dog,” says Danse, a little too quickly. “That was your other offer.”

“Was it? Sure sounds like something I'd say.” He ashes his cigarette and gives him an appraising look, head tilted a little as he takes stock of him. Danse stands up straighter, draws his shoulders back a little more. “Glad you remembered it.”

“It was an unexpected addition,” says Danse. His ears are beginning to pink again, and he still doesn't know what to do with his hands. “It seemed appropriate to recall it for discussion at a later time.”

“I'm sure.” This time he _knows_ Church is laughing at him, smiling a little behind his fingers as he smokes.

He takes the hint to leave, finally, and stops at the edge of the covered garage, one foot on the smooth poured concrete. “Should I set an alarm for tomorrow?”

Church shrugs, a motion barely visible in the dark yard. He leans back, head against the thin peeling metal of the house wall, and exhales a thin plume of hazy smoke into the night sky. “Take some R&R. Sturges and I have a to-do list a mile long, so I’m not leaving here for another few days. Unless you've got big plans for me.”

“Roger that. I’ll--”

“Don’t tax yourself.”

Right. Back to usual, for whatever given value of ‘usual’ he chose to use. This, too, is familiar ground. “Knight Church. Report to me tomorrow for physiotherapy if your legs are aching. For whatever reason.”

Church turns towards him a little, enough that Danse can’t quite see his face in the dark. “I am at your command, Paladin.”

“Correct,” says Danse, grinning like a fool. Dangerous ground, yes, and on thin ice and all the rest of it, but maybe this misstep has legs after all. “100% correct.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been staring at this for a week debating on whether anyone would be interested in reading it, so thank you if you made to the end! You can find me on Tumblr at <http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com> posting endlessly about my [dour workaholic shitbag FO4 OC named Church](http://wastelandbonerhell.tumblr.com/tagged/church/). Come say howdy!


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